


The Most Tormented Land

by Herodias



Series: Here Indeed Is The True Lover [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Aziraphale Angst (Good Omens), Funeral, Giuseppe Ungaretti, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Paris (City), Poetry, San Martino del Carso, this is what happens when I try to write Aziraphale angst, while Crowley was sleeping Aziraphale was Oscar Wilde's lover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 14:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20341735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodias/pseuds/Herodias
Summary: Picture an angel. He's wearing a suit - he’s visibly uncomfortable in it, he rarely wears black and hates it when he does - and he’s holding an umbrella - useless against this assiduous rain. He’s supposed to be radiant, because his nature demands so, but the world has turned grey half a century ago, and so has he. There’s no softness, nor kindness, in his eyes, just echoes of a newfound rage temporarily set aside, in favour of an ancient grief that never really went away.Aziraphale mourns his lost friends, and Crowley is nowhere to be seen





	The Most Tormented Land

_But in the heart_  
_no cross is missing___

_It’s my heart_  
_the most tormented land_  
Giuseppe Ungaretti, _San Martino del Carso_

Picture an angel, with blond, perfectly twisted curls and eyes the bluest blue you’ve ever seen. Don’t be fooled, he is no common angel. He has no wings; not visible to the mortal’s gaze, at least. Get rid of the harp you’ve probably conjured in your mind; it’s common knowledge there are no harps in Heaven. Also, get rid of white robes and heavenly settings, of celestial harmonies and soft clouds and suffused light. No big deal, that’s not what Heaven looks like anyway.

This angel is wearing a suit - he’s visibly uncomfortable in it, he rarely wears black and hates it when he does - and he’s holding an umbrella - useless against this assiduous rain. He’s supposed to be radiant, because his nature demands so, but the world has turned grey half a century ago, and so has he. There’s no softness, nor kindness, in his eyes, just echoes of a newfound rage temporarily set aside, in favour of an ancient grief that never really went away.

This angel is standing in a cemetery. The year is 1950, the town is Paris. He’s attending a ceremony that it’s not a funeral, not quite. He wishes to look away, but he cannot, he must not; instead, he looks up, and finds an angel carved in stone staring at him. He stares back.

It’s a big grave, an impressive grave. Inside of it, almost hidden, there’s a small compartment. Today, that pocket is no more empty; it contains ashes that used to be alive a very, very long time ago.

“Is it right to put the ashes of a man who’s been dead for thirty years inside the grave of a man who’s been dead for fifty years? Surely the man who’s been dead the longest never expressed such consent” someone’s thinking, “Shouldn’t that spot rightfully belong to someone else?”

But they weren’t there, all these people who are here today. They cannot possibly know what happened sixty, seventy years ago. They’ve been told bits and pieces, but the whole story? The intimate side of the tale? They cannot possibly know, they weren’t there.

The angel was there, of course. He knows everything there is to know about these two men, and every other person involved. The scandals, the intrigues, the passion, the lovers, he knows it all. He used to be part of it. He remembers everything, he remember everyone; it’s his job to carry the burden and the memories, to set things right before history seals the wrong and unfair stories and buries the truth. And yet some truths are to be buried, deep in his heart, meant to be seen by no currently living being. He misses the past and longs for it.

He’s the last man standing. Everybody else has succumbed to Azrael’s fatal kiss. Not him, of course, he’s an angel of the Lord, his soul is immortal. “That’s not a blessing,” he gloomily thinks, “that’s the cruellest of the curses.” The war is over, and he’s the sole survivor.

Picture an angel. He was created to be a warrior, a soldier. And so he stands, straight back, clenched fists, focused gaze. So he stands, until the ceremony is over and even the last human is far away, looking for shelter. So he stands, until he’s completely alone, both in the graveyard and in his heart. Then, and only then, he lowers his eyes to the damp soil and cries all the tears left in this mortal body. He doesn’t pray, for he knows God won’t answer his questions, nor comfort him. He dares not pray, for he’s mourning sinners, forgiven by him but not by Heaven. He wonders, in the back of his mind, how come he hasn’t Fallen yet.

_And alien tears will fill for him_  
_Pity’s long-broken urn,_  
_For his mourners will be outcast men,_  
_And outcasts always mourn._

That’s what the epitaph says. Truly prophetic words. No one is more of an outcast than an angel stranded on earth.

He falls on his knees, the umbrella long forgotten behind him. A hand caresses the tomb, warm lips leave a bright red trace on the white limestone. And he weeps, amongst the shreds of his long lost human identity.

Picture a demon. Don’t be fooled, he is no common demon. No horns, no tail, no fork, just serpentine eyes behind stylish sunglasses. He lurks behind the monuments and the graves, carefully avoiding to be noticed. He never met the dead men - he was having an affair with Morpheus back then. But he knows the angel; for six thousand years he has known him.

He cannot stand to see his darling angel’s face soaked in tears, and yet he keeps his distance. Not now, now’s not the right time. But one day he’ll be able to put together the broken pieces of his heart. One day, the love that dare not say speak its name shall rise without shame and shine in all its glory.

It will take time, a long, long time, for love to finally reveal itself. The angel in the stone stares at them and pities them both.

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn’t obvious, I’m describing the day Robbie Ross’ ashes were put it Oscar Wilde’s tomb. I like the idea of Aziraphale being their lover, especially considering that at the time Crowley was canonically out of the picture.  
There’s a reason why I don’t write Aziraphale angst, and that’s it. It breaks my own heart. But, since I’m writing an angsty saga about Crowley and his assigned mortal god Raffaello Sanzio, it only seemed appropriate to start a series about Aziraphale as well.  
Also, brace yourselves, Ineffable Husbands Week is coming and I have plenty of fics to publish.  
_Ye Angste Continues_


End file.
